Kinslayer
by ClearlyNotAWriter
Summary: Catelyn Stark looked at Jon like he would be the end of House Stark, sometimes. In a way, she was right. However, when Longclaw swings down, Jon Snow takes absolutely no pleasure in it. He fulfills one of his dreams in a twisted way. [Dark AU/ Set after the end of the story]
1. Beheading a million people

**Hey folks, new story here.**

**A bit of a darker concept. Focused, again, on the aftermath. Though, admittedly, much worst. Basically, the Children of the Forest weren't good people. Bloodraven wasn't a good guy. Although good or bad depends on the perspective. Huh.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF or its adaptations, GRRM rules all that.**

**ENJOY!**

The sun blazed against the green plains outside Winterfell. It was almost unbelievable, though, that such a warm and fine day was possible. After such a harsh winter. After winter has come. After _they _had come. Jon almost shuddered at the thought, but he held it down with a slight shake of his head.

It had ended. The Others were no more. The Children of the Forest were no more. Bloodraven was no more.

A light chuckle came from behind him, though Jon chose to ignore it.

They arrived at a small holdfast in the hills, close to the ancestral home of the Starks. About twenty men had come. Amongst them were Greatjon Umber, Galbart Glover and others. Tormund was there too, and Ser Davos. All men Jon learned to trust.

On his right treaded a giant white beast, bigger than their horses. Silent as always, Ghost throttled just as stiffly as Jon. He could feel the direwolf's dread, just as much as he could feel his own.

On his left rode Howland Reed, just as quiet. The man had been a close friend of his father, though Jon has never met the man. Until the war, of course. He met almost everyone during the war. They were all there. The Lord of Greywater Watch had his eyes focused, hardened. He never took a glance behind, at him. At _them. _He had been fooled as well, and his children. Now he had none.

They reached a small clearing, a white tree stump at the centre of it. Jon almost doubted his decision, but he pushed forward. They all circled the area, dismounting. The whole trip had taken much more time than needed, but there was a clear and recognisable cause to their delay.

Horses are faster than chairs with wheels.

Jon took a deep breath, scanning the area around them with mild recognition. He had been here before, he thought.

"Yes." Said a low voice, sounding almost amused. He turned to the boy, in his exquisite chair, the faint clues of a smirk on his face. His red hair had been all cut, though his face hadn't been shaved. They thought it wouldn't grow so much. He was just a boy. Only one and four. But both Jon and Robb had the beginnings of a beard as well, in his age. He should've known.

But in truth, the reason for his carelessness was that he had avoided the boy. He left him confined to his room, alone. Every time they both stood in front of each other, Jon felt guilt, grief and even fear.

The voice shook him from his thoughts, and those blue eyes sent a child down Jon's spine.

"This is where father executed that deserter." He said simply, nostalgia lacing his voice. It was rougher now, not anything like the eight-year old's Jon remember.

"Don't call him that." His voice came out harsh and croaked, in response. Bran Stark merely stared him in the eyes, Tully-blue on Stark-grey.

"He is our father." He said, serene.

"He is Bran's father." Jon replied, which earned him an amused smile from the boy.

"We are Bran Stark."

Rage flooded Jon's body like adrenaline, wanting to rip off that smirk and burn it up. He wanted the sweet and innocent smile back. He wanted Bran back. He grinded his teeth, much like Stannis Baratheon. He closed his eyes, trying to subdue his wrath. Ghost was also becoming more and more aggressive, but Jon told the direwolf to calm down.

He motioned for the men to position the boy atop the trunk. They did it warily, fearful of what the boy could want to do. He didn't, though. Only smiled faintly, thanking them.

He stood still, awaiting Jon.

The bastard of Winterfell then called for his sword. Tormund was the one to bring it, sheathed on a heavy bear pelt. Jon took hold of the hilt and pulled. The sword left its container with ease, seeing as it had been meant for Ice, not Longclaw. But Ice was long lost. Just as the Starks were about to become.

He rested the tip of the sword, while holding on its hilt with both hands. He had seen Lord Eddard perform such duties since he was a kid. He knew the rituals.

"In the name of Robb of House Stark, last King in the North, by the word of Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard from House Stark, Regent of the North, heir to Winterfell, -" his words almost failed him then. He didn't those titles, not like this. "- and appointed as next King in the North, I do sentence you to die."

It had been almost a whisper, words for only them both to hear. The boy was quiet, eyes on the white tree trunk under his face. A weirwood, he knew. A sinister thought passed through his head then, but it was pushed down. There was no reason to fear. It was over. They were over.

When Jon didn't move for the execution, Ser Davos approached him slowly.

"You don't need to do this." his voice was laced with concern. This was the third time that the Onion Knight had tried to talk Jon out of this. This was the third failure.

"The man who passes the sentence-" he started.

"-should swing the sword." finished Bran Stark.

Ser Davos eyed the boy slightly, worried. He then turned to Jon again.

"The North passed the sentence. All these men did. The people alive did. Why can't you let someone else do it?" he was desperate now. Jon understood why. It would break him, he knew. But he had decided on it.

When Jon didn't respond, the mand sighed in exasperation. He backed down, murmuring about the stubborn nature of northmen.

"Any last words?"

The last Stark finally looked up, as much as the position allowed.

Jon Snow fixated on his eyes then. He didn't want to murder his own brother, not after losing everyone else. But inside those bright blue irises was not the third son of House Stark. There were many more people there. All of them, who wanted to be together with those living, yet for that, they had to die. They had to die.

"We helped all along. You survived because of us. You had a partner because of us. You became Lord Commander because of us. We even tried to stop your death, but you were just so stubborn. Just like then. Just like now." He said simply, disappointed. He then faced back down, allowing Jon a clean view of his neck.

Jon adjusted the valyrian sword on his hands, testing its weight. He once again stopped, eyeing Ghost with so much grief. The wolf nodded, barely. Jon sighed.

"Don't look away. Father will know if you do." said Bran Stark, and Jon rested the blade on his brother's neck, ready for a strike. "And now it begins."

Jon lifted the sword and in one swift movement, he brought it down hard. The hairless head of Bran of House Stark tumbled over and rolled down, bumping on Ghost's paws.

The direwolf looked at it for a second before turning to Jon, who stood still, watching the earth suck the blood slowly. The direwolf howled and charged, jumping at the bastard of Winterfell.

"No. Now it ends."

Jon spun and opened his arms, facing the wolf head on. Ghost bit his shoulder then, a thick splash of blood flowing from it. But Jon put a hand on its head and pressed a knife to its throat.

The direwolf tried to bite down hard, but it couldn't. The conscience that was inside Bran had taken control of the body, but Jon's partner was still there, holding back. Enough for Jon to slit its throat, soaking himself with wolf's blood. It whimpered, silently, red eyes fading to nothing.

Though the teeth of the beast were not on Jon's shoulder anymore, the man held his friend hard. He when to his knees and kept his face buried on the wolf's white fur.

For how long he stood there, mourning? Jon couldn't tell.

When he finally let go, his eyes were deep red. The night was gathering, and most men were already atop their horses. His little brother's body was buried under heavy pelts, ceremonial pelts.

Tormund helped him stand, while the Greatjon and others took care of Ghost's body. Longclaw was in the possession of Ser Davos, who hadn't sheathed it yet. He mounted his ride and they all returned to Winterfell, with the sun bidding them goodbye.

They buried Bran Stark down the crypts, between Arya and Rickon. Ghost was a different story, though. He was skinned, so his pelt could remain with Jon. The latter wasn't the one who requested it and was extremely angry when they handed him the white furred pelt.

But in the end, as morbid as it could sound, the 'gift' made him feel a bit better. They had supper that night, though there was no joy. Jon retired to his chambers shortly after. He slept alone, cold and hollow.

The next day, Jon held a council. He had been chosen by Robb as his heir but felt extremely unfit for the role of king. He voiced his concerns and asked that all lords present voted for the new king.

The news struck oddly with most lords, some even contesting the idea. Jon gave them a stern look, reaffirming his intention to have them choose.

In the end, they chose him. All smug and coy, they looked proud of their cleverness, even if it wasn't it at all. When he protested, they told Jon that he was the _heir_, he had proved he could _rule_ and be _trusted_. To reinforce their argument, Tormund, Sigorn and other Free Folk's chiefs stated that they would not follow the orders of a stranger as a king.

A whole week of negotiations and councils after, Jon finally gave up. They crowned him a fortnight from then, in a party much more humbled than previous ones.

At the end of it, Jon excused himself, and wandered thorugh Winterfell. He finally stopped, at the crypts. He stood in front of each member of his family, even Catelyn, who received a place of honour. He told them what they had been to him, and when he finished, eye to eye with his father's statue. He felt a bit of hope swirling in his heart.

The Weirwoods have controlled Bran, they sent dreams to confuse and misdirect his siblings. They had Arya believe she was the most skilled fighter around, when in the end she was still a little girl of four and ten. They had Sansa trust the wrong people, they had Rickon become beastly. They had done things to Jon too.

Perhaps all he did, was their plans as well. Maybe he wasn't Jon Snow. Someone else could be having these thoughts.

'Winter is coming.' rung through his head, then.

Jon understood the words different now: it was both a boast and a warning. Warning that there is always danger, lurking somewhere, growing, waiting. But boasting that it could come, because Starks were wolves. They ruled the Winter.

He smiled sadly, before nodding, and walking away, white pelt on his shoulders and a bronze crown atop his dark hair. He was later found on the godswood, Longclaw on his lap, a washcloth sliding up and down the blade. In front of him was a lake. And behind stood a tall, white tree, who once had eyes on its trunk. But now two dragonglass knifes were stuck in its eyeholes.

Their watch had ended.

**I'm thinking of creating a second chapter, focused on Jon's life as King in the North. Not long though, just a quick summary of what occurred until his death. Tell me if you want to.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed this story. Tried to make it more mysterious, though maybe it didn't work. Oh well. And as always, rate & review.**


	2. Crowning a black fish

**The original idea was an one-shot about Jon having to kill a possessed Bran, where the Children of the forest were behind the Others and everything, but I took the story going forward and decided to focus on Jon as king, his relationship with other kingdoms, and founding a new family. This story is quite advanced already, so wait for more chapters to come. They are much lighter than the first one, though.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF or its adaptations, GRRM rules all that.**

**ENJOY!**

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_**CHP. 2**_

Although Jon Snow couldn't find much of a purpose to live after the beheading of his little brother, he did it anyway. Long years, enough to see the face of his great-grandchildren.

He had marked his name in history, after all. As a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch; a friend of the Free Folk; a Lord of Winterfell; as King in the North; as a bastard. Though he ended up acquiring many names throughout his years.

The citadel referred to him as 'The Bastard'. The other kingdoms referred to him as 'The White Wolf'. The northerners got used to calling him 'The Old Ghost', at least on his later years of rule. It didn't matter to him, much. He still felt as Jon Snow, even if that definition changed each year.

His first year of rule was relatively peaceful. Most houses approved of his claim, partly because they were the ones to press it, and he had turned uncertain allies into loyalists.

House Umber agreed on almost every command that the King in the North would issue; House Manderly would make sure that no scheme to undermine him would even come to practice; House Karstark reaffirmed their loyalties and would be content to say that they shared the same blood.

Though on the twelfth month of his rule, a council was called to discuss an important matter, and this time Jon was strongly outnumbered.

"We DON'T have the men!" he had said in frustration.

That seemed like the wrong choice of words, though, for the anger arose from within his vassals like he proposed to honour Ramsay Snow's memory by giving his name to the unborn heir.

"We have enough!" ruffed Greatjon Umber. The man could be as stubborn as a mule when he wanted too.

Jon sighed deeply, closing his eyes. It wasn't true. Their numbers were so scarce after the War for the Dawn that Jon feared that other kingdoms would invade, or maybe a host from the Free Cities would subdue them and get a hold of the North. The garrison of Winterfell was especially damaged. Men and women from Wintertown were asked to move into the castle to help on duties. They couldn't wage war so soon.

"M'lords, please."

The calm and collected voice of Ser Davos Seaworth was a blessing to the king's ears when the noise got too loud. With few words he managed to ease the tension, with a jape here and a level-headed comment there. Jon knew he would have given up his throne by now if the man hadn't accepted to become his Hand; sort of. More like most trusted advisor.

"We cannot create conflict with enemies that aren't ours." Jon said, slowly.

Beside him, devouring a chicken's leg like it had offended him, Tormund Giantsbane questioned why. Jon ignored him.

"But they ARE our enemies, your grace." answered Wyman Manderly.

Jon couldn't really tell him otherwise. The Freys, and their Red Wedding, had created lots of enemies around Westeros. Some thought they were scum who should be punished by the gods for forsaking the guests' rights. Others were much more direct. They lost people at the wedding, and wanted revenge.

From the end of the Hall, a man stood up and started to walk towards the dais. He kneeled in front of the King, eyes on the stone floor.

"My king, the Freys have been enemies of the North since before their vile betrayal. The Neck was never safe from that family. I beg you we answer this call for help."

Howland Reed had been a close friend and confidant of his father, Eddard Stark. He knew secrets that had the latter wanted to keep most secret. Jon had taken a liking to the Lord of Greywater Watch as well, for he helped Jon get back on his feet.

_'He never intended to marry someone else then. He wasn't the heir. And didn't choose to be. Yet he took his duty, and did what was required, even if the whole world saw something born of love as a token of dishonour.' _The man had said. He then looked Jon dead in the eye and asked: _'Do you want to know her name?'_

Jon had wanted that for as long as he could remember. His mother, his loving noble mother with a sweet smile and kind heart. The woman his father had loved. _Yet_, Jon thought, _he never told me her name._

The smile Howland Reed gave him after he refused had been comforting.

"Excuse my boldness, Your Grace, but the Riverlands suffered a lot these past years. Your brother, King Robb, and Tywin Lannister tore it to pieces whilst fighting their wars. That wretched man, Lord Baelish, did little to rebuild or restore the situation. Now the Freys wage war amongst themselves." the Onion Knight told him.

When Jon's shoulder slumped slightly, almost admitting defeat, the man's eyes turned softer.

"The North is also responsible for what happened down there, even if it suffered greatly. It is your duty to help restore it." He finished and Jon almost cursed his name. Bloody duty. Davos spoke true, of course. But Jon was mad, anyway.

Jon opened his mouth to answer, but a screeching noise from within the centre of the Hall caught his attention.

The man who was now standing tall was Ser Brynden Tully, also known as the Blackfish. He had been the one to request The King of Winter's aid in retaking Riverrun and the control of the RIverlands.

"Your grace," he said firmly. "I understand your concerns. Many of us do. But they also don't have the men to oppose you. Ever since Walder Frey died, his sons have been fighting amongst themselves. If we strike soon, they won't stand a chance."

The man was proud, Jon could see. He wasn't happy asking for help. Though he had aided them in the war against the Others. He had appeared on Winterfell soon after Jon conquered it, presenting himself as Axel the Swimmer, an old squire that never got to be knighted. He offered Jon his sword, and desperate as he was, the bastard took it.

The man had been a huge addition to their ranks. He trained green boys and even grown man; skills almost unmatched. When Sansa appeared on the castle, Jon saw his lingering glances at her and the smile that followed and thought the man a creep, asking her sworn shields to watch him. When he revealed his real identity, Jon understood why. Sansa was becoming more and more like Catelyn, his niece.

Now he wanted Jon to return the favour, though not in its proper proportions.

Jon sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Say we end up successful. We assault Riverrun or the Twins. We win the war. What then?" he asked, scratching his beard. _Maybe he should shave._

"Are you asking for me to pledge the Riverlands to the Kingdom of the North?"

Jon didn't mean to offend, really. But it was an issue that had to be discussed. Being rid of the Freys didn't mean that all problems would be solved. Who would rule next? Jon would like to know the answer.

"No." he answered simply.

He heard Davos sighing beside him. "Lord Brynden, what we need to know is what are the plans after House Tully regains control of the Riverlands. IF you wish to bend the knee to King Jon, we must see it through. If you have another idea, then you should speak it. We need to know where we will stand, after the war." he explained.

Ser Brynden's anger seemed to lessen. Silence reigned for a while before he spoke. Eyes hard.

"What do you suggest?"

The question was directed at Jon. The king looked at his bronze crown, resting atop the table. He had no claim on the ancestral home of House Tully, neither was he love or respected by the riverlords. There seemed that only one option remained.

"I think it's time the Riverlands see a Tully king. It's been millennia since someone held the title of King of the Trident. Old powers and old titles have been rising lately," he could see his words made many men shiver, though he kept his voice steady. "maybe it's time for that one to resurface again."

Greatjon Umber barely mumbled, something along the lines of 'like father like damn son'. Wyman Manderly sighed, though not surprised. Alysane Mormont had a smile on her face.

When Jon's eyes met Ser Brynden's, the usual hard look wasn't there, and regret seemed to swim in his deep blue irises.

"Anyone here disagrees?" the king made his voice rumble, and although some small complaints were whispered, no one stood to oppose his decision. "This is my idea." he finished.

Ser Brynden took a deep breath before speaking, his tone much softer than before. "A good one.".

Jon then looked around, all men eager-faced and ready for his decision.

"Gods take you all! Stubborn fools, that's all you are. Can't stay put, can you!?" no one answered his taunts. He pinched the bridge of his nose before announcing: "Let's kill some Freys."

A roar of applause and cheers erupted on the Great Hall. They had fought so much and yet these hard bastards were thirsty for blood. Even if it was the disgusting kind.

"BUT," he yelled, catching everyone's attention. They all eyed him curiously. "REMEMBER THIS! We are helping allies. Friends. This is no revenge spree. Do you hear me? We will deliver justice."

Everyone nodded, smirking. Jon didn't believe them one bit.

After they all calmed down and sat, Ser Davos raised his hand to speak: "We still need to know who will sit the throne."

Jon nodded, eyes darting to the riverman on his court. Ser Brynden raised his voice a bit, when saying: "I don't desire a crown or lands, truly. Never did. But my nephew, Edmure, is not ready to rule. He wouldn't be able to, even if he wanted. He is a captive at Casterly Rock."

"So, who would be your heir?"

"I could marry." Answered the knight, though Jon had heard the stories.

"What if we somehow get your nephew freed?" he voiced his question.

"Then I would gladly have him as my heir. He has a son, a young boy named Hoster. His line would sit the throne, instead of mine. But only after I teach him everything I can." The Blackfish answered. "Though I don't think that the Lannisters will let go him. His claim on Riverrun is a threat to Emmon Frey, who currently holds the castle. He is the husband of Genna Lannister, so I doubt that they would forsake her for us." he finished, sounding almost hopeless.

Jon eyed maester Samwell and grinned. Maybe not for free.

"I might have a plan for that, but you will have to act on mercy." Jon told him, which earned him a burrowed frown from the old knight. "Don't worry for now, I will tell you if we have a chance of rescuing your nephew. In the meantime, we need to prepare."

The king felt pretty exhausted after that meeting, but for some reason his skin was hotter. A fighter is a fighter, it seems.

* * *

"How exactly did you accomplish such a feat?" asked him Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, in a whisper. They were watching the coronation of the new King of the Trident, Brynden Tully. Beside him was his nephew and heir, Edmure, a pretty lady beside him. In her arms, a redhaired baby boy was crying, though not so loud.

"Wars can be fought with quills and ravens." Jon answered. Lord Blackwood seemed to enjoy the answer, though, as he dropped the issue.

In truth it hadn't been exactly Jon's plan entirely. He had contacted the current Lord of Casterly Rock, Martyn Lannister. The boy was not much younger than Jon, but in truth it wasn't he who Jon wanted to discuss with, but the man behind him.

In truth, the Westerlands almost crumbled when the news of the Doom of King's Landing.

Cersei blew up the city with wildfire, with both Daenerys' horde of foreign soldiers and Aegon's host, together with the Golden Company. They had been fighting inside the city, a new Dance of the Dragons the maesters were calling it, when suddenly everything went up in bright green flames.

The Mad Queen, Cersei Lannister, didn't perish in the fire though. She had been imprisoned by the Mother of Dragons, though. Jon heard latter that Ser Jaime Lannister infiltrated the castle to rescuer her, but she told him it was too late. They would rule over ash and smoke. As far as the tales told, however, she tried to issue the command for the wildfire by screaming. Her own brother murdered her, both hands on her neck, trying to muffle her voice. He even killed the alchemist. But he forgot Cersei's confidant, a man named Qyburn. He set everything aflame.

After that chaos issued throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

The Freys began their wars for Walder's dirty legacy.

The Vale closed itself and mourned the death of its lord, Robert Arryn. A man named Harry Hardying assumed the control of the Eyrie, changing his surname to Arryn.

The Westerlands were a bit more peaceful for a while, with Martyn Lannister ruling, Genna Lannister as his regent. But a certain small man was there to get a hold of what was his.

The Reach began a civil war. The Florents took the opportunity to declare themselves Kings of the Reach. The Tarlys opposed them, then. They had Mace Tyrell's daughter's custody, and the Lord of Highgarden had lost its younger and oldest sons, so he hadn't much say in the matter.

Dorne kept silent. Jon heard some whispers that the dornish had been working with both Targaryen hosts, though in secret. Doran Martell hadn't declared himself Prince of Doran in the old meaning of the word. Though it seems his daughter, Arianne, did.

The Stormlands elected a boy named Edric Storm as the Lord of Storm's End. The castle was in the hands of the Golden Company, but they surrendered it soon after hearing of their defeat at the capitol. The stormlords were discussing the boy's coronation, and soon Edric's surname would become Baratheon.

The North had Jon as king and had been much more focused on its own problems. King's Landing wasn't a concern, though dragons were. They didn't last though.

With Westeros in disarray like so, Jon thought that the best to do was to find allies, even if in the weakest form of the word. He sent ravens to Casterly Rock and started an alliance with Tyrion Lannister. The move was bold, and many of his vassals steamed in response. But Ser Davos explained it to them.

In the end, Jon pledged that the North would recognize Martyn Lannister as King of the Rock, should he ever decide to wear a crown. But as payment, they would return Edmure, Roslin and the babe to Ser Brynden. They also wouldn't back up the Freys, when the war started. Genna Lannister was a problem, at first. But they agreed on pardoning her, her husband and their line. Riverrun would return to the Tullys, but Emmon Frey would get the Twins.

Jon's plan was to ask Tyrion for the hostages and then help him conquer his family's ancestral castle. But the dwarf refused, and after much negotiation they arrived at those terms.

Emmon Frey refused it, but Genna Lannister agreed. It had been to their advantage, but Jon could help the distaste in his mouth whenever he saw the new Lord of the Crossing. He didn't care about his kin, accepting their deaths just fine.

The war had been easy, though. The Freys had almost consumed themselves before the northern host arrived. Three factions remained. One led by Emmon Frey, who were allies; one led by Lothar Frey, who had control of the Twins; and a third one led by 'Black' Walder Frey, who was currently on siege, trying to starve Lothar and everyone inside.

Before they rode south, Jon treated with some of the riverlords through ravens. Tytos Blackwood pledged his support almost immediately. The Mallisters were weary, especially since news of Jon murdering his brother had arrived.

Every northern lord had to send letters to explain what had happened, though it did little to help. They eventually joined Jon when he had already subdued Black Walder's forces and took control of the siege.

The Smallwoods and the Pipers also joined them.

In the end most riverlords accepted Tully rule. The truth is they all wanted a king of their own, for quite some time.

Lothar eventually surrendered, but on the terms that he'd be given Harrenhal, be spared and turned vassal to Ser Brynden Tully. The man accepted through gritted teeth.

History would tell later of Lyonel the Kinslayer, Emmon's second son who hanged Lothar at Harrenhal. The man, it seems, didn't die much. Stories of murmured singing of the Rains of Castamere throughout the castle began soon after its lord's death. The place may be cursed, after all.

Now Jon had a new ally. King Brynden seemed to treat Jon much better after the council meeting. Even with respect, never calling him 'boy' again.

A fortnight after the coronation, Jon was making plans to leave the Riverlands and return north, when the Riverrun maester entered his chambers, Ser Davos right behind him. The man was small and fragile, though his smile was bright. Almost no hair on his head, he had dark brown eyes and a greyish brown beard.

"A raven came for you, your grace." He said then, handing Jon a parchment. Ser Davos gave him a look, showing Jon that he knew what was written in it.

Jon opened it and something fell. He picked it up and examined it in his hands: a blue rose, though not fresh. No, it was dying. And in the paper were many words, but two caught his attention: _Help_ and _Marriage_.

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**This chapter was much fun to write, really. I hope you enjoyed it, because I did.**

**Rate & Review, please, criticism is always welcomed.**

**Until next time.**


	3. Watch and Learn

**Well, here's chapter three. Really, a set up for next chapters, but at least we have Jon making decisions as king and people reacting to it. ALSO, Imade a change on CHAPTER 2, so that Jon doesn't know his mother's name or who she was (Ashara Dayne). A mistake I've made when writing that one, that showed itself now on later chapters I'm on. Anyway, please, enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF or its adaptations, GRRM rules all that.**

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"We don't have the m-"

"Actually, your grace, we do now." said Wyman Manderly, cutting him off.

Jon glared at him, hard. He really shouldn't have told his court about the raven.

"Even so, we have no obligation help them. We fought on the opposite side of them in the last two biggest wars." Jon reminded them, and this time it seemed to work.

They weren't eager to march even more to the south. Most wanted to go back home. It had been eleven moons since they arrived on the Riverlands. Jon missed Winterfell.

Ghost's white fur was on his shoulders and his bronze crown was atop his head. Longclaw was resting in front of him. Part of his hair was in a bun, a look his father used to wear. He had decided against shaving as well. All for the purpose of looking more king-like. He wanted them to listen.

"I agree. Fuck those rosies, we don't need'em." said Jon Umber. "Besides, his offers are shite! What good does a used cunt has!? The girl married thrice AND has a bastard daughter! He is mad to think she is fit for a king!" he roared.

Jon sighed. "That's not the issue here, Jon." he replied. Though the offer was noteworthy, because it showed just how desperate Mace Tyrell was. He didn't have much to negotiate with, so he played all his cards. He pledged House Tyrell and the Reach to the Kingdom of the North, and his daughter would seal the deal, offering herself as Jon's bride. It was all pretty weak, honestly.

But the point stands. It wasn't their war. The Tyrells and the Starks almost never agreed on things. Not enemies, just not friends. Yet…

The King of Winter looked around. Strong men, healthy men, men ready to fight. But for how long could they stay like that?

The North suffered its harshest winter in thousands of years; the Riverlands were burned, exhausted and abused. Both kingdoms needed food. Their supplies were dwindling each day, their fields slowly healing.

The Reach wasn't at its best, either. However, it was undeniably the most fertile lands in all Westeros. The winter had tired it out and the war was finishing the job. If they wanted to make good use of those lands, it had to be now.

"Your grace," Jon looked up, away from the white wolf's head of a pommel, where Jon usually stared at when thinking. The habit began after Ghost's demise. "you seem much more thoughtful than before, when we discussed a similar situation." said Lord Galbart Glover. "May I ask why? After all, there's almost no reason to sustain such a proposal."

Jon stared at the man dead in the eye. _He has no children,_ he thought, _but his late brother left heirs._ His gaze shifted to Alysane Mormont. _She has sisters, little Lyanna. _He faced the door then, straight ahead. There stood a soldier. He was malnourished, slim as a spear.

He took a deep breath, let it out moments after. Beside him, to his right, he saw the Blackfish lean towards his nephew to whisper him something. He chose to ignore it, for now.

"Winter has come, and the scars it left are still hurting. But the body was already badly injured before it. Wars and conspirations held the daggers." he started. Lots of people glared at Emmon Frey, but he was staring at Jon, shaking slightly. "We need to heal, yes. But we have no potions, no gauze, no strings for the needles. We may make do with what we possess, aye. But the weaker ones might not make it. The children. The sick. The crippled. Should we take the risk?" he asked.

His words were met with confusion. They didn't understand him, although he saw that some inhaled deeply. Ser Davos was standing near the door as well, and he smiled at Jon. He knew.

"What I mean is that we have no food. We are strong and eager and healthy, aye, but for how long? The Riverlands have been stripped of its supplies, either by burning or by someone consuming it all." More glances at Emmon. "We need to make sure that our sons and daughters won't have to skip a meal. The Reach has never been friendly towards us, yes. But we need fertile lands. And they need peace. Let's try to solve each other's problems." He finished.

When the atmosphere grew tense, he added, with a small smile: "I miss the taste of goose stuffed with onions and beans."

At first only few chuckled, but soon everyone was laughing and exchanging jests. Jon felt his whole body relax, and a bigger smile appeared on his lips. He exchanged glances with Tormund, who was now beside Ser Davos, a horn in hand. He smiled and lunged forward.

"WELL SAID!" he yelled, shocking everyone present. He had the attention of everyone, and so his speech started. "Glad you all understood him fine, aside all that 'scars' and 'hurtin' horseshite." He grinned then, looking at his king.

"Starving to death ain't something you kneelers want to feel, aye." He mocked, and although Jon reprimanded him through his grey eyes, he knew the man wouldn't change his ways.

"Now, I will say this: you better not let any stupid ideas run through your inflated heads." He pointed at Jon. "That little Crow-Turned-King there, he is the best you all could ask for. I've heard tales of some of you and your little plans. Slitting throats and telling lies might be your way of doing things, but you should never do something like that to him. Heh."

His voice suddenly turned much more ominous. "Cause the Free Folk won't forgive ya." A long gulp from his milk-filled horn, he wipped his mouth with the back of his hand and boomed: "House Giantsbane will always stay loyal to Jon Snow, the pretty crow. And so should you."

He finished by yelling Jon's name loud, with a chorus of Free Folk following his lead. He lifted his horn to Jon and winked. Tall-Talker indeed. Jon returned the gesture. Beside him he heard Ser Brynden chuckling, together with a giggle from Roslin Frey.

"He's funny." she told her husband. He replied by disagreeing.

After everyone mostly settled down, a man stood up to speak, and Jon motioned for him to do so.

"I agree that we have to seize this chance to take a hold of those lands. But the letter mentions that the Reach will become part of the North, not the Riverlands. We should get something out of it." The one who spoke was Lord Jonos Bracken.

After he finished, many riverlords started to nod and voice their agreement. Except for Tytos Blackwood, of course.

Jon waited for the commotion to settle, before speaking: "We shall integrate the Reach into neither of our kingdoms."

The confused and shocked faces of his and King Brynden's vassals were plastered on their faces.

The King of the Trident rose a hand to ask for silence and followed the motion with a question.

"May I ask why? Not having them under our command can prove to be very precarious."

"They are at war. Florents against Tarlys. They want a king. If we smother their hosts and declare them vassals, the chances of revolting are too high." He explained. The truth is, Jon didn't think neither he nor Brynden would be able to hold the place for long. Reachmen didn't want a northern king, much less one crowned through war. "Like we did here, we will install Mace Tyrell as King of the Reach."

Before anyone could protest, Jon continued:

"We will respond to Tyrell's pleas by stating our conditions: The Reach shall revert a just part of its crop production to both kingdoms. The houses will also send sons and daughters to be warded by northern and riverlander lords. Some marriages will sort things out."

Jon didn't like the thought of using such methods to enforce his will, but he was tired of betrayals. The first Starks defeated their enemies and married their daughters. Jon would do something similar, though much more gently. At least he hoped so.

"Do you really believe it will work?" asked Jonos, doubtful.

Jon knew the plan was simple. Win the war, demand food and hostages. But everyone was desperate, they were tired of fighting.

"Aye."

The doubtful looks he received didn't do much to waver his conviction. Not a single one from a northerner. His men believe in him; he hoped that meant something.

* * *

After the whole conversation, Jon excused himself to his chambers.

In front of his door stood the maester. He opened it for Jon to enter and followed soon after. They sat down near the fire that had extinguished by now, though the room was warmer still.

"I'm sorry to bother you, your grace. Especially after such a heated and tiresome meeting."

Jon sniffed, before scratching his nose. Tired he was, but the maester wouldn't have sought him out for a petty reason, so he nodded.

"I thought to give you advice, if you may." he adjusted himself on the chair, focusing more on the king now. "Your strategy is very hopeful…" he started. "…but I don't think it's a bad one. However, reachmen can be quite prickly and stressing to deal with. They are proud of their land and may not accept your intentions on the spot."

Jon sighed. Heavily.

The master continued: "So I think you should not only speak with Lord Mace, but also his mother."

Jon chuckled. "Is the man that weak willed?"

"Almost. But the woman could make many strong men hold their tongue or fumble with their words. She holds authority, whether you think that's right or not, and showing her that you just want to ease it for everyone could be advantageous."

Jon pointed out that both knew someone would lose in the end. He just nodded, commenting that they would work on the letters tomorrow.

The small man nodded eagerly, probably satisfied with his own advice, and left.

Jon kept alone for some time until a maid entered his chambers and brought him supper. Bean stew, with almost no beans. At least there was wine. The king thanked the girl and positioned the pot full of wine over the dying hearth. He sat back and sighed, rubbing his temples with his index and thumb. Only moments later he realized he hadn't heard the door open or close.

He turned quickly, and the movement earned a shriek from the young woman. She was standing still, her back to the entrance, fumbling with her fingers. Her left hand flew to stop the sound, but it was too late. Her face turned red and her eyes darted to the floor.

He arched an eyebrow.

"Are you alright?"

The question seemed to calm her down, shoulders losing its stiffness slightly. She looked up then, though her eyes were still close when she said: "Do you need something? Y-your g-grace!" the last part was added harshly.

He opened his mouth to answer but a sudden thought passed through his head. Anger started to rise, but he held it down. Scaring the girl would be no good.

He stood and took slow steps towards her. Her eyes were still closed, her body tensing each time he advanced. He stopped about five feet from her.

"Open your eyes."

He asked again, saying 'please', after she refused to do it the first time.

Instead of doing it slowly, she opened them fast, almost too much. It shocked him a little.

"Sorry." She said, averting his eyes.

"It's fine." he answered, tilting his head so he could see her eyes. They were hazel coloured. She eventually answered his gaze with her own, but the fear of what he might do still showed.

"Your eyes are really dark." She mumbled. He chuckled again and she flushed. It was a pretty shade of pink. Her face was nice, too. High cheekbones and lips full. Her sandy blonde hair was cascading around her shoulders, and he remembered Val for a second. His body reacted to the memories.

His face twisted and he used his hand to hide it. He ended up frightening her a bit by the motion, and she almost called for help. He held his hand up and told her he was fine.

For one quick moment he had wanted to take her. This girl. He forced himself into control and gazed her eyes again.

"Whatever they told you to offer me tonight, you can rest assured. I won't. We won't." he nodded to reinforce his words, and she mirrored.

He opened the door and motioned for her to leave. When she did, he sighed hard and went back to the fireplace. He looked at its ash-filled centre and wondered whether he should the fire, or not.

Lost in his thoughts, Jon barely noticed the knock at his door. He absent-mindedly told the person to come in, even though he wished to stay alone.

Edmure Tully entered. He was wearing a dark blue shirt with the Tully trout over it. A deep red cloak rested around his shoulders. His copper-red hair had been cut short and his beard had been trimmed, although it had already grown thicker. His face was unreadable, though, judging by how tense his shoulders were, Jon imagined he was nervous.

"May I sit?"

Jon nodded, motioning for the chair beside his, with a small round table between them.

He remained silent, until his eyes properly focused on the hearth.

"Do you need more wood?" he asked, frowning.

"No. Neither do I need women." Jon answered, a bit coldly. He knew the Blackfish wouldn't have sent him one. And him appearing soon after she left the room probably meant something. Or the king was blaming the wrong person.

The blush on his face was visible in the, almost, completely dark room.

"I understand." Jon didn't think he did. "I actually came to…" Jon waited. "…thank you properly. For having me released. Uncle told me it was you who negotiated the terms with the Lannisters. With the Imp." the last word was laced with disgust.

Jon grunted in response.

"I've also heard that you were the one to suggest that we became kings." He said, pointedly looking at Snow now.

"Aye."

He fiddled with his fingers, taking his gloves out. "I'm grateful for it. Truly." he said then, firmly.

"You guys deserved to have one of your own ruling." answered the king.

Edmure was a man about fifteen years older than him, but since they met, Jon had a feeling that the man was still a boy, somewhat. His kindness was well-known, just as his naivety. A king had to be just and king, yes, but hard and confident. King Brynden's heir had much to learn, though Jon felt that he would be a loved king. At least by the smallfolk.

"I was mad at your father," he started, but a long pause told Jon that perhaps he regretted the topic of choice. "for fathering a bastard. I mean, he had married my sister, exchanged vows with her. Then he went and broke them. I couldn't understand why, not after hearing all about how honourable Eddard Stark was."

Although the mention of the word bastard should have made Jon feel offended, he actually understood the man. If any of his sister's husband had done the same, he would probably be pretty rude to him as well.

Maybe telling the brother of his deceased stepmother wouldn't mean much, but it mattered to him.

"He didn't, though." He said softly.

Edmure showed him a confused expression, brows furrowed.

"He fathered you."

Jon pushed his impatience aside.

"Yes, but he didn't break his vows. Because I wasn't fathered during Robert's Rebellion." He clarified.

"Truly?"

"Aye."

The information didn't seem to settle well with the heir to the Trident. Jon could almost see him do the numbers.

"How?" he asked.

Jon sighed. "The details don't matter, I would guess, but my father laid with my mother before the war. Before his marriage. He tarnished his honour, in the end. But not your sister's. The man who told me that would not lie to me."

Edmure didn't seem to believe him, though he didn't protest.

Jon then asked about his wife and kid, to which the man replied eagerly. They spoke a bit about politics and Jon's strategies to deal with his vassals.

"Basically, just have someone who understands you so well that he or she can clear about any misunderstandings you might make?"

Jon nodded solemly.

A smile appeared on the prince's face. He got up and extended his arm for a shake. When they did, he said: "I hope you can teach me more about ruling as king, when I succeed my uncle."

Jon smiled slightly and nodded. Edmure then bid him goodnight and headed for the door.

When he was halfway out, the king called for him.

"What did the Blackfish whisper to you during council?" he asked, tone slightly cold.

Edmure frowned a bit, trying to remember. Realisation flashed on his features and he answered: "Watch and learn."

After he left, Jon stayed on the chair for a while. He then reached for wood.

* * *

**So our boy Jon Snow is heading towards war again, huh. Alliser Thorne warned him though, even if only in the show. A new setting will appear next chapter, and some characters will be making appearances as well.**

**I don't know how long I will make this story, but this chapter was one of the fastest that I wrote.**

**Hope you enjoyed it, and review it for me, please.**

**Until next time.**


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